Bakery Street Boys
by oceanicsix
Summary: AU Sherlock and John run a bakery together  Just a bit of fluff at this point, haven't really decided where I want to go with it!
1. Chapter 1

**Summary: **Sherlock and John own a bakery together! It's honestly nothing but pure fluff for the moment, and I plan on keeping it that way. ;)

**Pairings: **Sherlock/John right now, but there will probably be more to come. Mycroft/Lestrade at some point, I'm sure.

**Warnings: **Language and possible sexual situations, but nothing over PG-13

**Disclaimer: **Don't own any of this, obviously! And I'm positive this general story has probably been done before, I'm just having a bit of fun with it.

Please read and review!

**Bakery Street Boys**

"John? John Watson!" I turn around, sighing softly as the stout little man gathers his things in his arms and waddles along after me. "Mike Stamford, remember me?"

"Course I remember you!" I give him a firm, military handshake, shifting a bit to lean on my cane. He notices. Of course he notices. Who _wouldn't_ notice? Then there's the almost imperceptible change in expression, from careless and friendly to that terrible, terrible pity. God, I'm sick of the pity. I shift my weight again and clear my throat loudly, making a move to turn away. "I'd love to chat, but I really need to get going. Taking another stab at getting a flat." I start to walk away, sighing as I hear him pad along after.

"Looking for a place in London, yeah?"

"You know me, Mike. There's no other place for me. Not like I can afford it, though. Not on a bloody army pension."

"Found someone to share? Harry could help, yeah?"

I laugh and shake my head, unconsciously curling my hand into a fist. "Nothing's changed there, Mike. Trust me, I won't be getting any help from the family." I purse my lips in frustration and lean against a park bench, fiddling with my cane. "And who do you know that'd want to share with _me?_"

Oh, there it is. That look, that smile. He's up to something. I furrow my brow and glance away from him uncomfortably, almost afraid to ask. "W-..What is it?"

"Oh, nothing. It's just...you're the second person to tell me that today." I frown curiously and shift to face him again, sighing in exasperation.

"Who...who was the first?"

Molly huddles outside of the door, cradling a bag of pastries, wincing every time she hears the furious pounding on the table. He's at it again, apparently. She peeks through the window to the kitchen, flour flying everywhere as he brings his fist down again and again on the mountain of dough on the counter. He's misplaced the rolling pin again. She knocks lightly on the swinging door, pushing it open hesitantly and poking her head inside. "Um...Sherlock? I've f-finished decorating the pastries. And...erm..." The little bell over the door tinkles lightly and two men walk in. "Oh, we have customers!"

He's at the door in an instant, grabbing the bag of pastries and setting them on the counter. He looks like an absolute madman, hair sticking up at odd angles, covered head to toe in flour. Maybe he doesn't realize, because he pushes past Molly without a second's hesitation, greeting the newcomers coldly. "Hello, how can I help you today?"

Oh, why couldn't he just let Molly handle the customers like usual? He always scares them off. These two stay though, sauntering up to the counter.

I walk up to the counter with Mike, casting him a nervous grin and mouthing, "A baker? Really?" Mike shrugs and reaches out to shake Sherlock's hand with a bright smile.

"Sherlock! Told you I'd get you a roommate before the day was out, didn't I? Well, here you are!" I take a tiny step back as Sherlock appraises me, seemingly unimpressed with what he finds.

"You like the cream-filled kind." It isn't a question. He's..he's actually _informing_ me of my favorite sweet, as though I didn't know already.

"Erm...yes? I...do." I smile nervously, moving my cane to my left hand and holding out my right to shake. "John Watson, pleasure to meet you."

He shakes my hand firmly, eyes sliding over me again. His eyes seem to be boring into me, picking out every little imperfection. I pull my hand away from his after one uncomfortable moment, clearing my throat. "And...your name?"

"Sherlock Holmes. The flat is just upsta-...the cakes!" He gasps and shoves past me, sprinting upstairs and disappearing behind a slammed door.

I turn to Mike, dangerously close to hysterical laughter. "S-so..._that's_ my new flatmate?"

He shrugs apologetically, tucking his hands into his pockets. "Well, like you said, you won't be able to find anyone else willing to share. And yeah, he's always like that." He gives a little wave and slips out of the door before I have the chance to reach out and throttle him.

"Sherlock Holmes...this could be the worst decision I've ever made in my life." I grit my teeth and take the steps slowly, pausing for breath at every other one. I close my eyes and open the door slowly, opening them to slowly take in my new home.

This will definitely take some getting used to.


	2. Chapter 2

**John Watson: The Blog Doctor**

June 14, 2012

Erm…Dear…People of the Internet (How the hell are you supposed to start these blog post things?),

Suppose I should start by explaining a bit about myself? My name is John Watson, I'm an army doctor recently returned from Afghanistan, and my therapist says that keeping a running blog will help me deal with the stress I've been under since I got home. Right. Well, let's get right to it, then.

Three weeks. I've been living here three weeks, but already it feels like a lifetime. I've properly moved in now, taken over the second bedroom, though Sherlock's landlady and shop assistant didn't seem to think we'd _need _two bedrooms. I'd rather not think about the things they say about Sherlock and me when we aren't listening. Needless to say, it's been an awkward three weeks, and I've been refusing to respond to Mike's texts asking how I'm doing.

Molly and Mrs. Hudson are just the icing on the Sherlock cake, however…oh, have I already been reduced to terrible cake puns? IT'S ONLY BEEN THREE WEEKS! My newly developed sense of humor is the least of my worries, though. Sherlock is the _real _problem. He's been driving me up the wall, asking me to taste test everything for him. "John, have a bite of this cake, I'm working with a new icing." "John, does this filling _actually_ taste like strawberry?" "John, have these leftover pastries, I don't understand why no one wanted them." The requests themselves aren't so bad; he really is quite the baker. No, everything is fine until I actually attempt conversation with the man.

For example, just five minutes ago, _this_ happened:

"John, would you come here a moment?"

I sighed and shut the lid to my laptop (where I'd been working on this very post!), shuffling over to the kitchen.

"Yes, Sher—…" I stopped short, eyes widening comically at the state of the kitchen. He'd only been up for ten minutes, and the entire room was _covered_ in flour and some sort of blue paste. "Sherlock, what the _hell_? Mrs. Hudson just cleaned up last night; she'll have your head!"

He waved away my concern impatiently. Clearly, there was a greater game afoot, something _far_ more important than our inevitable eviction. "I've just had a thought. I was experimenting with this blueberry icing, but wouldn't it taste much nicer if I baked it _into _the cake?"

It took me a moment to realize that the question was in fact directed at me. I stood there staring at him in amazement—I could actually feel my eye twitching a bit—my eyes slowly sliding down to his robe. That horrible blue bathrobe, today's flour now covering the flour from yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that…Completely forgetting the issue at hand, I stepped forward and tugged at the offending garment, nose wrinkling as a layer of flour fell to the floor. "Sherlock, when are you going to wash this thing?"

"John, the blueberries!" Upon meeting his gaze again, I was amused to find something akin to _panic_there. Apparently, blueberries are a serious matter in this flat.

"Right, the blueberries. I think you should go with—"

"Quite right, John, thank you for your input." I glanced up at him in shock, brow furrowed as he started back to work.

"But…I haven't actually said—"

"You were going to say that I should go with my initial instinct, because in your limited time with me you've already found that my skill as a baker far surpasses your knowledge of the subject and you could never hope to give me any sort of real advice on the matter. And you're quite right."

The eye twitch returned, and I turned away from him to head back to my computer, mumbling, "Well, glad I could help…Wash that bloody robe, it's revolting."

The moral of the story? Never, _ever_ attempt a logical conversation with Sherlock Holmes.

Best wishes, John Watson.

**Save and Publish**

The click of my mouse feels somewhat satisfying as I submit my first ever blog post, setting my laptop on the coffee table in front of me. I peek over into the kitchen, checking that Sherlock is still hard at work on his blueberry concoction before laying down for a nap.

The first thing I see when I wake several hours later is Sherlock's horrid blue robe folded up and sitting on his chair. Only it isn't so horrid now. He's cleaned it.

**So...uh...there you have it! Chapter 2! And what is this at the end? Sherlock actually doing what John asks? Hmmm...**

**The only thing keeping me writing this is positive feedback, so if you enjoy it please please please leave a review (and if you don't enjoy it, leave a review telling me why)!**


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